THE SEVENTH ATTEMPT

[NOTE: found this on my external hard drive. wrote it when i was 18~19. don't remember writing it]

NEVER SAID HELLO
Her heart raced as she watched the feud continue. They yelled and yelled at each other until both of their voices were shot and both of their tempers had cooled to fits of stubborn frustration. Something bad had happened. Father had done it. Mommy was mad. That was all she knew. Her and her mother's eyes finally met and her mother realized that she had seen the whole bout from the kitchen door. She ran to her. Her father pursued moving sharply, and was met by her mother's hoarse voice screeching threats. Her mother lifted her and ran for the door. Her father yelled in a commanding, controlled voice. Her mother stopped, turned slowly, looked coldly into his enraged eyes and said, "I never really loved you, Andrew Johnson. Never." That was the last time she saw her father.

CALIFORNIA GOLD
"This is cool," I'm thinking to myself, and subconsciously I'm being reassured. "It doesn't hurt". That's the funny thing about this. He's just like every other boy here. He's overly excited, snobby, typically showing what are usually considered signs that ridolin should be included in his morning routine. The only difference is he's not afraid. From the get-go he was nothing but smiles and touches. Every other boy has been all about under-practiced attempts at subtle approaches and making timid, if not frustratingly slow progress on the physical front. But the truth is, I'm not sure if this is what I want. It's scary to see that he always knows what I want. It's like he knows me, but what part of me? I think I love him. But I'm not sure...

Yesterday I was in Patel's class watching a video about molecular structure or some shit, and I realized that he had fallen asleep. I laughed to myself and was about to lie my head down when I noticed his face in the door window. My heart jumped and I waved to him giddily. He looked over to Patel's desk and saw him snoring rhythmically to the sound of the narrator's nasally, indecipherable voice on that stupid video and he took his chance to slip in. I freaked. Like the kind of scared but non-resistant sort of freaked. I was frantically beaming and mouthing "no, no, no" but he only smirked back and turned the doorknob. The light from the hall snuck in a little more than usual as he walked quietly but fearlessly in and I caught sight of him slipping something into his pocket. A present! I knew it! Or a note of course, but he wouldn't come in here if that's all he wanted to give me. I licked my lips in anticipation as he tip-toed comically passed Patel holding his finger, ridiculously over his lips. I slowly realized that I was falling in love with those antics. That goofy smile was getting to me. I did. I did love him. I couldn't wait to see what he had brought me. He pulled a chair out from the lab and slid it over next to me. He put his arm around my shoulder, sliding his hand across my neck and right under the collar of my shirt as he did. He kissed me on the cheek and said "hey baby" with a level of skill and just, perfection that I had never seen or heard. How did he develop these perfect antics, actions and words for me. At that moment he had me. He was a baker making this immaculate multi-layered cake for me. He had worked his way all the way up to the icing, that kiss. And then he pulled the cherry from his pocket. "I got you something," he said. And a small black velvet box appeared in his beautiful hands. Suddenly a thought shot through my mind. An image of my father flashing the same box before my mother's eyes, and her reaction. "I never really loved you". I love him right? I want this. I want this! No one should have to reassure themselves about something like this should they? I love him. I...love...he opened the box before my eyes and they were earrings. I forgot what I was supposed to feel. Then I remembered his cake. And that cherry he topped it with. Earrings. He does love me.

He does love me right? This is love right? I am resisting on instinct. I'm new at all this. I just don't know how to love yet. Just let him kiss you. Kiss him back. Oh, that feels...mmmm...wow...I didn't know that I could feel...mmmm...I just...I just...then I feel that bump. That's the first time he's slipped. That...that wasn't subtle. That wasn't romantic. That was him trying to take a bite of the cake. The cake he had baked for me. I don't think I want this. No. No. "No". He ignored me and brought his arms down and around to my legs. I shouldn't have taken my pants off. I...I...no...no...

I'm not sure how I had lasted that long. As a virgin I mean. No bounds, not restrictions, my mom probably even thought I had been doing it for years. But...that was it. My first time. It was incredible. If I weren't so nervous it might have actually been the best experience of my...oh, man...ha...blood. Angie had said it was like that and...well, at least it's my bed. My bed. My first time, and with someone I really love. I really love him, and he loves m..."I'm gonna go now, baby".
"Wait, what?"
"Um...I have work tonight and, um...I dunno," he pulls up his pants and gives me a chuckle, "I gotta go, baby". Then he laughs. He laughs a laugh that takes me further than my comfort zone can reach. He puts the rest of his clothes on and...and he's gone. I don't know what just happened. What just happened between me and...and that Nester Marquez? He made that cake for himself didn't he? He pretended like it was mine, then he ate it, right in front of me. Right in front of me. Idiot. Idiot.

JUNIOR VARSITY
Once you start, how do you stop? Dancing I mean. My feet hurt like hell and all I can think of is...well...I guess I'm not thinking much. If the beat weren't thumping, if my legs weren't moving, and if I couldn't feel him rising each time I crossed him I would be thinking about the fact that Nester was only a few feet from me with that bitch, Angela. God I hate her...she's such a...oh, there he goes again, his hands, sliding down my waist. Under normal circumstances I would giggle and withdraw. I'm ticklish, if nothing else I'm ticklish. But the mood is making my nerves work differently. His hands, my waist. Hehe. It's working. I'm letting it work. And Angie's giving Nester the same treatment. Bitch. Bastard. I can't believe it. She knew. She knew! I always knew she was just a horny slut. Mmm, okay, I'm ready. I've been perfecting this. Perfect circles. That's what the other girls do. And the guys've all got straight faces but their nutting all over the place. Perfect circles. Hehe. You know, it's more than just the music.

I swear it's not revenge. I don't know revenge. I don't want...well...I can't do revenge. Sure I'm on the dance floor because I saw them get up and go. Sure I pulled him from his seat because I wanted to spar with that bitch. That traitor. My best friend. AGH! My BEST friend. But I'm not one for mean girl-style revenge. Besides, I actually like him. No. Not Nester. I...I hate...I miss...that's not the point. I LIKE this one. I pulled him out of his seat for two reasons, really. And now I'm letting him get to me. He's not smooth like Nester. It took him forever to get it up. Nester's probably been and gone. He's probably been WITH HER! But he hasn't left her. This guy, he's a nice guy. I wonder if he's ever done it before. That would hit the spot. I don't need this stress. Better not grind too hard. I might ruin my chance. Ha. I can't believe I'm thinking this. Okay. There. The song is over. "You likey?" I ask him.
"Hehe, yeah. Hehe. Um, you wanna go for a another one?"
"No. My feet hurt like hell. I need to rest." He looks disappointed. He needs reassurance if I want this to go right. "But next slow song," I put on the sultry smirk, "you have my number, boy." He beams. Of course, just then I spotted them. Behind that stupid cute smile there they were. Walking hand in hand. To spite me. To SPITE me. God. They slipped sluttishly passed him and Angie's eyes caught mine. She smirked, and the smile I had started to fade. His hand. I reached for it, almost instinctively. Defensively. He was surprised so it took him a second to really take it. But as soon as he did I knew. Virgin. He caught sight of them and absorbed a bit of my discomfort. That's what I needed. Friendly osmosis. Nester ignored me with a flawless performance. He had his eyes on one of his buddies during the whole uncomfortable transaction. I love...no. I can't...I...he...

"Mmmm...mmmmm...ohh..."
"You know, this is my first time...and..."
"Don't worry...it's mine too."
"I don't...I..."
"Don't worry. Just..." I clasp my hand around his wrist. He's skinny for an athlete. Junior Varsity. A Senior in Junior Varsity. A Senior that's a virgin. Thank God I'm drunk. I guide his hand to my bare leg, and guide his arm to...oh, "Further up," The Button. Click. "Kiss me". He does. "Mmmm". It starts. Not like Nester, but...no..."John," I say, "Johnny P. Jenkins, work a little harder for me."

THE SHADOW OF DEATH
Johnny P. Jenkins Jr. was who...was WHAT I saw before my eyes. He...IT was lying in a pile of blood...my blood. Goddammit. FUCK. I...I couldn't believe it. Why the hell was I so adamant about it? Shit. "Let me see it". Let me see it, I had said. Fuck. There it was, dick and all. A boy. A mother fucking boy. Just like its fucking fath...no wait...Nester wasn't the...fuck. Shit. What had I done? No. I had to, I just...I couldn't have a baby. I couldn't bring another fucker into this world. Especially not MY fucker. Ha!

"You understand, don't you?" I searched his eyes, not just for the answer, but for meaning, for justification. I fucking well felt like I had murdered someone. Johnny Boy hadn't raped me. He probably fucking well knew it was his kid. I can't imagine what he must have felt the first time he saw me with a flat stomach. Now I was looking to THIS guy for answers. "Was I wrong?"
"It's not about whether you were wrong or not," he said sternly, absolution in his big blue eyes, "You feel guilty. You feel dirty. You feel lost. It's obvious that you're in pain. It's what you do about it that's important. God wants to absolve your guilt, to cleanse your heart, to show you the path you need to take. The soul of the boy that died that day in the clinic is with Christ. He doesn't want to hold you responsible. He wants to forgive you, renew you, give you his love, so that one day you can join him, and your son, in Heaven."
I was bawling. The tears wouldn't stop. How? How could he say that? How could anyone ever make this pain go away? I want...I want Nester. I want him here! By my side to tough it out with!! I don't want some inviso-being with super-spiritual cleaning ability. I want someone to hold me. Wipe my tears. Wipe my tears! WIPE MY TEARS! Please. Just tell me it will be alright.
"It will be alright."
"How!?" I screamed through a stream of liquified suffering, pain, and guilt. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me. No. You! YOU, wipe my tears!! I took it and wiped my face. I blew my nose in his face, just to spite him. "How will it be alright?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But...but I know it will be. Look, God loves you. He won't let any harm come to you that you don't want yourself. Ask him for help, and he'll give it."
Bullshit. These aren't answers. This is cancer-treatment!! No matter how long I go to fucking church, act fucking pricky and stuck-up, and pray to fucking Go-odd my shit's always going to be in remission, and all I'll need is one thought of Nester, of my first time, that blood, THAT blood...and...and...I might as well just fucking kill myself.
"I love you."
What? I must have looked stunned. He turned the oddest shade of red I have ever seen on a white person. "What did you say?" I asked.
"I...I love you."
No one. Not one man on the planet had said that to me and meant it. What the hell did he expect me to do? He had no plan. Bullshit me about my guilt, bullshit me about God, bullshit me about forgiveness, and now he's bullshitting me with...that look...he...he looks so honest. No. No fucking way. No man has ever loved me and no man ever will. All this is just a sickeningly weak ruse to get me in bed just like every other bastard's tried. This is just the weakest one so far. I love you. Shut the fuck up Christian bitch-faced-mother-fucking-bastard. I hate you.
"No," I said, "no, I can't...I don't feel the same way."
"That's okay." What? "I love you anyway." WHAT? "In fact, I've loved you since the first day I met you." Two months ago? "I...I don't know if I should say this..." Don't. "But I want to spend my life with you." Shut up. "I don't know, but I think that God has destined us to be together." Shut the fuck up. "I love you more than I love life and, well...this is totally weird, but, will you marry me?"
I had never before encountered that level of bullshit. I had never encountered that level of unskillfulness and lack of play before. How could anyone be so stupid? So socially inept to say or even THINK of that? I was flabberghasted. I simply pulled the cord, "stop requested", we stopped, and I walked off the bus without another word to him. I didn't even look back.

Shit. I still have that handkerchief. Shit.

HELL HOLE
I don't ride the R12 anymore. I catch the C16 and transfer to the C20 just to AVOID the R12. Everyday. To get here.
"Hey there beautiful!"
"Hey Boss."
"Oh, don't call me that!"
"Ha, okay." She puts her hand on my shoulder. She looks over my other shoulder at the computer screen.
"How are the numbers looking?"
"Well I was just checking the net. Stock indexes are up. Which is corresponding directly with the boom in sales over the last quarter. I can't believe we've made so much progress over the past two months."
"It's all because of you, babe." Oh, just go ahead and flatter me. "Not a thing we've done has helped us as much as your work, your recommendations. You know, you are an extremely intelligent girl." She's caressing my shoulder and has pulled closer to my face. Her eyes have met mine. They almost look motherly. They've got that little arched lower lid that I've always envied. And they're accented with just enough wrinkles to give away her age. She's young and pretty for a CFO. Then those eyes flicker toward my lips. She bites her own. She's...she's hitting on me.
"Thanks Boss...I...I mean..."
"Don't worry about it. Just remember, call me by my name." I smile nervously and she pulls away. "You know, it's getting late. do you want to go out for a drink? I know this incredible little bar-slash-club just down fifth ave. You want to join me?"
I hesitate. She...she's asking me out. No. I'm hallucinating. I...I... "I...I would love to."

"Guys are the real sluts!" I slur. Five martinis are floating around in my jerky, nauseated stomach. I don't hold my liquor well and I get drunk way too fast. Too fucking thin. "Fucking every ass they see! EVERY FUCKING ASS!! And what do they have? Not an ounce of remorse! Fucktards. All of them." She's on the floor, rolling back and forth. She can't. stop. laughing. It's a fucking riot. I giggle to myself and notice that she's had at least six more drinks than me. She gets up to a kneel and sets her hand on the bar.
"I know! It's the same everywhere! Guys are sluts. Bottom line." She sits on her stool and signals for another drink. She turns to me and looks deep into my eyes with those arched lids. "They don't understand the deep, deep emotional complexity we have. They just don't! It's something about not having PMS."
"HA!" I burst.
"Or a period. All that blood that just transitions from brain to dick, brain, dick. There's no outlet. They don't feel pain. They don't understand what it's really like to love AND lose."
"Yeah. Yeah."
"I don't even think their blood even has time to pass through their shriveled little hearts, it spends so much time in their dicks." She takes a swig and I lose it again. She's so funny. Where...where has she been all my life?
"Where have you been all my life?"
"Right here baby. Right here for you." She puts her arm around my shoulder and looks me in the eyes. I love her. She's so great. I've never met a girl who could understand me like that. We just click. She takes another swig and catches the olive in her mouth. She sets down the glass with perfect elegance. Then. Then she pulls the toothpick from her olive and holds it sexily between her lips. She turns to me and our vibes synchronize. She moves in, I react in perfect harmony. Our lips meet. Our lips part. Slowly at first the olive rolls between our tongues and screams this perfect sort of satisfaction. Why doesn't this happen when I kiss guys? It's that blood thing. It's their focus. They don't want love, they want a climaxing satisfaction. This. This is perpetual. I could do this forever. I COULD do THIS FOR-E-VER. But it slips. It...it slipped. It's caught. It...it...it's caught! I'm choking. She withdraws and searches my eyes urgently. I'm scared she's too drunk to react. I'M CHOKING. My mind screams to her.
"Oh God! Oh God! You're choking aren't you?" I nod. She jumps off the stool and almost slips in her stilettos. She tip-toe-runs behind me and starts the Heimlich. Once! No good. Twice!! That was good! Try it! Try it again!!! I scream with my hands. Three!!! It jumps. But not enough. It's still lodged in my throat. No air. No air. I...I can't breath still! I. CAN'T. BREATHE. Four! I. CAN'T. BREA....Five! BAM!!! It's out!! I scream for air! Air in. Air out. It's in. It's out. It's in. It comes out as a chuckle. She runs in front of me, grabbing my shoulders. There's a look of motherly concern on her face. I chuckle again. Her face changes instantly to a confused half-smile. I'm half-chuckling, gasping for air and finally I get it out.
"Thanks," gasp, "Boss." Her smile disappears.
"That...that's it." She says drunkly. "This has been quite the night. Quite the night. A little bit too exciting for me. No offense...but...yeah...I...I think you're fired."
"What!?"
"Yeah. You're...you're fired." She reaches in her wallet and drops a Benjamin on the bar. "Keep the change."
"You can't fire me! I'm...I'm you're best resource. You can't fire me! I made you who you are!"
Her back is to me. She's walking for the door. "Don't flatter yourself, bitch." She turns her face in my direction. "You...you know what? You owe me your life! Ha! Yeah! It's been fun...but I'm through. I'm through with you."
Bitch! Lip-fucking, half-hearted, gut-wrenching bitch! "You're just like every other guy! You sluuu..!" Oops. There it is. Breakfast, lunch and dinner...and five glasses of the worst martini I've ever had...all over my suit, my skirt, my shoes and the floor. I look up, embarrassed. She just chuckles arrogantly and walks. She walks right out of the door. Right out of my life. I should have known. Angela. That name has never let me down. Angela Crenshaw, CFO, Bitch-Ass Enterprises Incorporated. I'm never drinking alcohol again. Or trusting a girl named Angela for that matter.

APOLOGIZING
It was one of those overly-sentimental mother-daughter moments.
"I'm so proud of you," Please, don't be, "Even after losing little Johnny, getting laid off of your job, and finding out you had that God-forsaken disease, you're still on your feet and making decisions for yourself! Thank you, honey. You're an inspiration to me."
"Mom, I..." I was going to tell her that I didn't have the HIV, but, seeing as I had rewritten my history concerning the other two stories I figured I might as well let her think at least one truly traumatic thing had happened to me. Especially because of the tears. I just LET her be proud for a few minutes. "...I love you."
She did that choked-up grimace and head-shake that always precedes a hug. "I love you too honey!"
As we cuddled, for an uncomfortably long time...over the table, I noticed that one of the waiters at another table was staring at me...once again, for a an uncomfortably long time. He looked familiar. In fact, he struck me with this feeling of deep, heavy nausea. As my mother's hold loosened I realized it was him. R12 boy. The weirdo who had said he loved me. He loved me. I couldn't believe it. THIS was where he works? Mr. High and Mighty with all the answers is a waiter? Welcome to Weird O'Malley's House of Cow Feces, my name is...
"...Andrew, I'll be your waiter today. Would you like something to drink?"
Call it instinct, fear, wigging out...whatever it was, I stood up and left. I did it with my mother watching, with little red-headed Andrew standing there with his pen and pad, waiting to take my order. I don't ever want to see him again. I don't ever want to feel this kind of nausea again. It's worse than the flu. It's worse than food poisoning. Just seeing him makes me want to die in a way that no lesser being than my father himself could. I called a cab, turned off my phone, went home and vomited. I threw up everything I could find in myself to throw up, my lunch, my heart, my memories, my past, my guilt. I wrenched from my self everything that shouldn't be there.
Abstersion.
I purged myself completely of all impurities and I masturbated to the perfect, synchronous, rhythm of Nester. Angel, god, infinite. And I thought of him over and over again until my body wouldn't convulse anymore, until my mind wouldn't imagine anymore, until I was nothing but me and perfection. Me and the only thing infinite. The only thing perfect. Only me and Andrew...ah, Nester! Nester...Nester...shit. It’s hopeless.

A REAL DRUG
Hey, you. Yeah, you. Imagine that the floor is slowly disappearing from beneath your feet. It's not gone yet, just disappearing. Translucent. Just so much that you can see the worm trails and ant mazes that track just below the foundation of your house. See how the worms dance? See how the ants are sniffing the air for drinks? The club of wonders is always beneath your feet. You just have to get in tuned with that plane of existence. Find something to help you level off instead of constantly missing the important parts in between the highs and lows of life. The wind dances and the clouds commune. The waves jump, the currents flow, and the fish party to the beat of a different tune. And I'm pretty sure it's my tune they're dancing to.

I woke up in my sherpa's house in the most serene mood I'd ever been in. And it's not the morning after sex. It was the morning after a sublime round of puff, puff pass with the greatest group of people to ever grace the world with their existence, and bless me with their dharma. "How did you find this place?" you may ask. Well what I learned here is that the how is much less important than the why or the who, or more importantly, what, what you feel like. so I make a specific point not to linger on "how". How is not important, it's the fact that I DID find this place, and that I'm perfectly happy here. Well, almost perfectly.

I was tipped off by one of my fellow serenity engineers that this is not the end all be all psychedelica, nor is it the "best" way to forget past lives, pains, and anguish, but that there is something else that is like a thousand orgasms in every inch of your body, and that it never ends. Every time Nelson or any other memory jumps back into my system I am reassured that WHATEVER THAT is, is what I need. So I pursue it. I find myself asking people I don't know nor care to know "who" and "where" until finally I find "the house". I ring the bell and the intercom chimes to life.
"Who is it?"
"I'm here to fly."
"What’s your call and Song Bird."
"J'taime; Magnifique."
Click. "It's open."
I walk through the cast-iron gate and up the stairs, onto a flat with a dense aroma of incense and myrrh. I know there's a treasure of gold to be found, I can almost taste it. I walk into the room with the most sounds coming from it and find six or seven people sprawled out over the floor in various places around the room. This shit must be good, I think to myself. I spot the shooter, the source of all of these people’s euphoria.
“The greatness sent me.” I told him.
“No shit.” He replied and gestured, “Come here.”
As he waved me over he was in the middle of pouring powder into a spoon and lighting it. He did it all with finesse, impressively, with one hand up until the lighting part. Within the minute the powder was boiling and he grabbed a syringe.
“Hey,” He said, “use this belt and tie up your arm, at the base of your bicep.” By the time I did he had measured up the dose and was about to inject me. He stopped and asked, “First time?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Just keep your eyes closed. That’s the best way.”
The rush began the descent into the most inexplicable of experiences. Instantaneous overload of all senses. Imagine seeing more, smelling more, hearing more, tasting more, and simply physically feeling the perfect combination of undulating pleasure and pain-stricken tingling. No. You can’t imagine it. But that’s what I felt, and I just had to lie down as a result.
I could have done that every day for the rest of my life. In fact I made an honest attempt to.
I found myself a relatively non-violent junky boyfriend, a constant supplier and a flat of my own with months-worth of the best incense this side of the Caribbean. At some point in my hallucinating daze I made an attempt to call my mother. I gave her my address and phone number and another day passed. Or maybe a week, or a month. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a year. But I guess it could have been. Either way I found myself dirt poor, dirt-Y, and just generally miserable. It had been too long since my last fix and I hadn’t had human contact since the day my boyfriend left for New York. Little did I know, this would be the perfect set up for an entirely different kind of set up.

OVER DOSE
What’s happening. This can’t be real. I just. I did everything right. He’s just watching me. This feels...this doesn’t feel good. Please...please....sirens. Sounds. Everything. Nothing. Alone....alone....I’m.......

a poem about a black person: a poetry collection

i sit on a futon
i lay with my girlfriend
i feel depressed
i pet my american eskimo dog
i make some macaroni and cheese
i watch millionaire matchmaker
i feel awful
my brother went fishing once and caught my friend’s sister, by her cheek
i smoke a cigarette
i look at the lawn
i think ‘i want milk’


feeling cold, i rock back and forth and shiver
i look at ice sheets on the ground
‘when will it snow again’
i stare at my dog, he stares back
when we move closer to the sun it feels warmer outside
indigestion is like a brief reminder of death
i spend time thinking of ways to ward off chronic depression
i watch californication
i imagine palm trees in my off time
i think ‘are people thinking about me right now’
i think ‘yes’
someone looks, there is a picture of an egret on the wall
i feel unwilling to move upward, from sitting to standing
i feel uninhibited by my humanity
i will become an alien eventually, moving from one planet to the next
when trees grow they think about being uninhibited and move outward
upward
indigestion is like a recurring stab wound


once my dick got hard and i put it in my hand and then didn’t do anything else
there is never a fixed number of humans everywhere
hold on, i want alcohol
ichthyology
my favorite color is orange; afraid of it
i am also afraid of trees and their ubiquitous nature
human nature also dictates the necessity for ubiquity
i feel cold


i recently had an anxiety attack thinking about how awful anxiety attacks are
withholding information from your mate is a good way to drive them away from you
if i write another line of poetry will that do anything
dissecting the nature of books, ink, letters, words, paragraphs, pages, binding, book cover
book
when imagining sports i think of religion
when imagining religious practices i think of team workouts
black, red, yellow, blue
poetry
poetry
i’m rocking back and forth imagining deciduous trees
there is a deciduous tree in my house that someone murdered
warm, cold, warm cold
i went fishing once and pricked my finger on the hook while mounting a worm
the weather seems both bleak and hopeful to me
not being sure about myself feels comforting, in as much as potential seems possible
when i die, i want you to feed my ashes to dragons


my dog wears a saucer because he keeps licking a wound on his hind leg
once the apple core is reached, place the entire core into your mouth and suck
he studies fish mostly
he studies fish mostly
he studies fish mostly
androgynous humans have both an advantage and a disadvantage
i am unaware of what those are
i just thought ‘heathrow airport’
does fingerbanging count as fucking since lesbians count it as fucking
[profound statement]
awful, i am awful, i am not worth this or anything


poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
someone has already done this before
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
someone has also already done this before
poetry
this referring to a meta, self-referential poem repeating something
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
someone has read a poem like this to an audience
the audience did not clap
poetry
poetry
poetry
you will not clap
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
just kidding
i will not read this aloud
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry
just forgot how to spell ‘poetry’
poetry
poetry
poetry
start laughing please


this poem about a black person is going to be long
the poem will consist of almost one hundred lines of free verse
and few, if any, references to specific, well-known black people
this poem about a black person will, however remain strictly on point
because this poem has a purpose
this poem about black people will expand the horizon of your capacity for knowledge
it will be a poem that convinces you to be a meaner person
however this poem will not maintain any specific position on racial perspective
instead, it will be a poem about what it is supposed to be about:
about a black person
a black person who you would identify immediately as black in real life
from facial structure and vocal intonation
and this poem will continue to extrapolate on things you need to know
because you need to know about this black person
you need to know that black people are people
that they are not space aliens, as far as we know
black people, and specifically the black person this poem will be about, have things
some of the things are very serious, like facial expressions
sometimes the black person who this poem is about has sex
interestingly enough, and i put this line in scare quotes so you know there is implicit meaning, you have come to understand something important
this poem will be an informative poem
the information you will receive will lead to wisdom when dealing with black people
but it will do very little in the way of how you react to the black person it will be about
it will start like this: dear not black people, and will sound like a letter
it will be an editorial letter to non-black people
but that contains hard facts and evidence about the nature of black people and therefore it will reflect aspects of things you will find abstract but relevant to yourself
because there is exclusivity among humans
but all humans mostly seem to follow similar patterns
the black person who this poem will be about isn’t very different from other humans
there are things this black person is good at, and humans must experiment to find those things
what if the black person this poem will be about, went to mars
what if this black person ate a bologna sandwich
what if this black person didn’t know what black really meant
what if the inherent subjective relativity in meaning ceased to exist
there would be concrete things mentioned about this black person
non-black people would look at a black person out of the context of complex verbal communication
and communicate internally that the black person is black
people would walk around and only think without speaking and things would happen
and hypothetical situations would occur
and they would be mentioned in this poem
and this poem would convince you that being nonverbal and antisocial is a really a popular social mechanism
and more people would catch on and start doing it too
extreme instances of cause and effect would break down some elements and construct others
and black people would still be made of atoms
feelings of imminent pain and disaster would follow
spurred by the mentioning of black people and poems about specific black people
feelings of inadequacy would begin to arise
and this poem which will be about a black person would be banned
and billions of people would know what black people are
and that they are genetically more susceptible to sickle-cell anemia
the black person who this poem will be about has had experiences with other black people
has talked to them
has confessed love to them
discussed nietzche with them
them them them with them
this black person has communicated with insane, out of control black people
and is related to some
and has communicated with profound, genius-level black people
and is related to some
this black person experiences extreme, crippling loneliness
and out-of-control rage
and feelings of social inadequacy
has made facial expressions falling under the adjectives neutral, happy, confused
the black person this poem will be about has experienced something abstract called morality
has been challenged while doing things at the time considered completely normal things to do
accused of douchebaggery and unwarranted bitching
the black person who this poem will be about may interact with you some day
and will want not to be perceived as a black person
but will anyway
and time will pass and other aspects of this black person’s personality will arise and you will make a decision about persistent feelings you have around this black person
you may become friends with this black person
you may become mortal enemies and remain in contest for the rest of your interactions
regardless, this poem about a black person will remain to be about that black person
and you will remain you


when combating severe depression, think sarcastically about killing yourself
discuss antonyms and the phonology and origin of the word ‘antonym’
write poems about severe depression that aren’t depressingly long
eat carbohydrates
sing quietly to yourself in your room
begin to write a song, then stop and forget the chords and melody
and the words, which were about a girl you have imagined sex with
tell your friends you feel alright, that you think your life is great
watch football with your family and decide to root for the side they don’t like
pretend you have a fantasy football team and pretend to send text messages to your leaguemates
take a poop and feel the shit that got lodged where your fractured tailbone curves
feel the burn


i want to write a poem about what it feels like to be a filmmaker
i want to say i feel crippled by the standard noah baumbach, wes anderson and roman coppola have set
i want to say that i wish i were them
i want the poem to say that i wish i were established and making movies for money that were artistically satisfying
i want you to read how i lay awake at night thinking about how i may never become that
i want you to empathize briefly with the concept of not accomplishing unreasonably hefty life goals
i want you to stop empathizing and focus on reading the poem
i want to be you reading the poem

changing the title of 'dead midgets'

in an email thread related to the film i am writing-directing, titled 'dead midgets', cast member and costume designer cassandra yuill posited that the title of the film is off-putting to the point where the film is being 'hurt' and 'self-destructing' and people don't want to be a part of the production on this basis

i agreed to have a contest to decide on a new name for 'dead midgets' based on public interest, in order to give the film a more sellable name

post new title ideas in the comments section of this blog post and i will compile them into a poll in which people can vote for the 'best' new title

this contest will only be valid if more than fifty people participate

the winner will receive a free copy of the film on DVD, the album energy dusk on CD and a ticket to the film's release in november of 2011

this contest ends on january 10th

~50 directors, 50 films, 50 descriptive sentences: unsure why i did this/why i am posting this/if this is at all factually accurate.

adam humphreys
franz otto ultimate high-baller
doc about a prolific/mythical canadian tree planter [the johnny appleseed of conifers]

andy warhol
chelsea girls
women living in the chelsea hotel in the ‘60s

ang lee
hulk
eric bana almost breaks jennifer connelly in half with his penis

cameron crowe
almost famous
autobiographical/kinda dumb, about ‘rock and roll’

christopher nolan
inception
'juno' meets '500 days of summer' meets 'basketball diaries' meets lysergic acid

danny boyle
trainspotting
highly fashionable scottish, book-based movie about people living in a moral vacuum with access to a lot of heroin

danny perez
oddsac
puking after swallowing fifteen psilocybin-infused paintballs

david lynch
mulholland drive
naomi watts ‘goes crazy’ [~5 times]

francis ford coppola
tetro
vincent gallo plays francis ford coppola

francois truffaut
400 blows
10/10 pedorasts’ favorite movie

frederico fellini
nights of cabiria
fellini casts his wife as an ugly prostitute that probably no one would want to sleep with if she were really a prostitute

gaspar noe
irreversible
‘memento’ but pretty/unbearably graphic/not nihilistic

george lucas
american graffiti
everything good about star wars without being as boring/cheesy as star wars

gus van sant
elephant
aesthetically pleasing retelling of columbine with social-critique/pederast undertones

harmony korine
gummo
breast cancer awareness PSA

hayao miyazaki
naussica of the valley of the wind
accurately post-post-apocalyptic

james cameron
avatar
pretty bad, like, wasn't good

jean-luc godard
a woman is a woman
anna karina’s yellow teeth/hairy armpits

joe swanberg
hannah takes the stairs
slutty girl fucks multiple unattractive guys; feels bad afterward

joel/ethan coen
miller’s crossing
world full of bad-asses

jj abrams
star trek
the fluid nature of the universe explored sarcastically/in a pop-culture context

jon favreau
jumanji ii: zathura
what the fuck/wtf/whaddafuk

jonathan demme
rachel getting married
anne hathaway as sociopath; pretty sweet

jordan castro/mallory whitten
richard yates
romantic comedy

julie taymor
the tempest
shakespeare in love meets LOTR

kacper jarecki
eeee eee eeeee: the movie
exactly what it sounds like

kanye west
runaway
needed a black person on this list

lana/andy wachowski
speed racer
‘the quintessential post-modern film’

larry clark
kids
HIV+

lena dunham
tiny furniture
pimple-core movie about post-graduate stress disorder

lucile hadzihalilovic
innocence
lil girls just being lil girls trapped in a boarding school cut off from the rest of the world

mel brooks
the producers
funny/musical/pro-nazi

michael bay
transformers
hate this movie; can’t stop watching this movie if playing

noah baumbach
greenberg
same chick from hannah takes the stairs fucks ben stiller; feels bad about it after

paul thomas anderson
there will be blood
memeable

peter jackson
king kong
naomi watts ‘goes crazy’ [~3 times]

quentin tarantino
death proof
girl power

robert rodriguez
spy kids
su evas su pleh namdam a si poolf

robert zemeckis
contact
written by carl sagan; so good

roman coppola
CQ
seems like my life

ron howard
apollo 13
based on a true story about people in space

sam mendes
jarhead
never going to enlist in the military; ever; ever

sofia coppola
marie antoinette
extravagant in the 'right places'

spike jonze
where the wild things are
did with muppets successfully what jim henson was failing to do with muppets his entire life

spike lee
do the right thing
NAACP made me put another black person on here

stanley kubrick
a clockwork orange
my cousin starred in this movie

steven spielberg
jurassic park
sweet arcade game based on this movie

tao lin/megan boyle
bebe zeva
most-anticipated film of 2011[?]

werner herzog
fitzcarraldo
awful, but the french really like it

wes anderson
life aquatic with steve zissou
i’m on a boat, bro

self-conscious blog post

just spent five minutes on formspring looking at information posted by people i have never met in real life

feel fascinated by their lives because they are 'shrouded' by the internet, in what seems non-voyeuristic

via 'the advent of internet celebrity' and the fact that those who have it actively pursue it/seem addicted to it

feel completely incoherent

most thoughts begin clearly, then go blank, seems my brain reboots/transitions from visual to verbal, i think [something], then remember earlier thought, continue for a phrase/sentence, then it goes blank...

feels awful

seems similar to my father's thought/behavioral patterns

which worries me

seems like editing is the only way to be 'self aware'

like being able to form something in real time, review what happened physically and recall mentally what word-based thoughts were 'going through' 'your head'

and change it to adhere to something abstract that you imagine

confused about 'imagination';what that is/how to define it

'imagination'

seems like an abstract way to describe abstraction

if i were to attempt a dictionary-esque definition of 'imagination' in what seems concrete it would be this:

imagination — n. — 1. nothing. 2. a word representing the process where a human being transfers information from one or more of the senses [sight, taste, smell, hearing, touch], into a thought that extrapolates on, combines or deconstructs the information sensed in a way that may or may not be reconstructed through physical processes for the purpose of survival, to communicate a unique experience to another human being, or for commercial purposes. ex. when johnny said he wanted a crimson dragon like the one in his book for christmas, his aunt said 'what an imagination johnny has!'

writing concrete descriptions seems bleak

want to die a little

can't tell if that thought seems 'emo' or like 'a vague, sarcastic notion'

how unsure i feel seems comforting, like classification isn't definite, so can't be either one, both of which seem more bleak than writing concrete descriptions of frequently-used words

just played and won a game of solitaire, it's 3:32am

just played and one another game of solitaire, it's 3:37am

i feel awful